The Wolf Bride
by Beloved-Stranger
Summary: A Night Temple story for Song fans... Padding across the lawn minutes later, oblivious to the dew soaking her slippers and gown, she saw him standing at the gate, medallion eyes flashing in the meager light.


**Disclaimer:** Don't own. Waaarrg.

**AN:** Hokay. I wrote this because I have a soft spot for Song. I thought, well, Zuko kinda funked her over, so she deserves a little solace. I wrote it here, as a seperate part of 'The Night Temple' because it isn't really relevant to that story's plot (yeah, it has one of those), but it was boring a hole in my brain and needed to be written. I figure you can read this as a stand alone even if you haven't read 'The Night Temple'.

So enjoy. And remember, Stranger is a review-whore.

**Btw:** The poem Bara uses is 'The Jackfruit' by Ho Xuan Huong, and one of my favourites.

* * *

**The Wolf Bride**

A Night Temple Story

_My heart for now is a private road  
No thoroughfare, no heavy load   
No slow traffic, no graphic details,  
Cold or collisions  
No more stories to make me ache_  
– Bent, "Private Road" –

* * *

Mist had risen that night. It drifted and swayed about the house, curling long grey fingers a cross the lawn and lapping at the porch.

Her mother had called it unseasonal and untrustworthy. Guarding herbs had been added to the porch lanterns and the living room fire place. The blue smoke they produced added to the eerie atmosphere, their stuttering flames to the lilting night sounds.

Song sat, cautious and meditative, watching the woods beyond the front gate. The trees looked as though they were floating in a sea of silver. She started as their new ostrich-horse let out a rasping cry and strained toward the family compound, one massive claw scrabbling at its led-rope. Frowning she looked back to the wood.

Her breath froze in her throat.

There was someone out there. She could see a figure moving in the mist. A man. Tall, lithe, and she could just make out that his long hair had been mohawked into a thousand tails down the centerline of his scalp. His mask-clad face: a stylized wolf with black holes for eyes. A ribbon of mist hid it for a moment, and when it was gone, so was the mask. A court-bred, elegant face looked right at her, set with lupine eyes that reflected like silver coins.

He smiled. Song felt cold phantom hands move through her hair and trail a line from clavicle to navel. She gasped and sat suddenly erect.

Echoing laughter tickled down her spine, and the figure faded from sight.

* * *

_I'll always love you dearly  
Still you are mine  
Why'd you have to take so much time  
In calling me_

* * *

As a general rule, Wan Shi Tong was not a patient spirit. Owls are patient creatures, mostly because it is a quality necessary to pull of a successful hunt. Initially, the Great Owl had been as patient as his smaller relatives. Humans had worn that patience thin with their destruction and thievery. Spirits still visited the Library, but mostly, Wan Shi Tong was left to brood and pursue his collection.

And brood he did. At great length. Whether his vulpine companions thought it healthy or not.

The first day of Crossover came and went, and Wan Shi Tong continued to brood and read.

It was at this point, that Bara arrived.

Bara, by contrast, was very patient. He was a mist spirit. He dressed the way a woodland hunter might; in tunic, boots and trousers, all various shades of muted grey. His weapons were not a hunter's though. Secreted about his person were dozens of tiny bladed stars, their metal dulled to sneak through gloom and shoot soundlessly through silence. Like their wielder, they were far sharper than they looked. At his hip hung a wolf mask, watching the world with sightless pits of black.

Bara, in all his wisdom and patience, was seeking something. He figured correctly that the necessary resource could be found in the spirit's library. He found the Librarian in his private study, pouring over a stack of scrolls and taking fastidious notes on a ledger.

"You realize its Crossover, don't you?" Bara said by way of greeting. The Great Owl looked up to see him leaning casually against the doorway.

"I know," he responded flatly. "And I do not care. Mortals –" His solemn face twisted in a sneer, "– are not worth the soil they walk upon, nor the filth they consume."

Bara merely sighed long-sufferingly and gave him an easy smile. "No matter, old man. I haven't come to pry you from your papers. I just wish to know how you would feel about giving me an early solstice present."

Wan Shi Tong eyed him curiously. "Something from the library?"

"Just something small," the mist spirit assured. "A poem."

The Librarian scowled. "There is nothing small about asking for a poem, Bara. Each is a gem in its own right. You know this."

Bara held up his hands placatingly. "I do, and I'm sorry. But still?"

The Great Owl sighed and paced past the other spirit, donning his feathered shape as he entered the main Library.

"Very well. Follow me, Mist Walker, and we shall find you a gem."

* * *

_Just want to be easy like  
Sunday morning_

* * *

Shifting. Restless. Words spilling along the inside of her skin. Damp whispers spiraling over her shoulders beneath her night gown. Cool, ghostly hands smoothing her limbs.

"I am like a jackfruit on the tree."

Padding across the lawn minutes later, oblivious to the dew soaking her slippers and gown, she saw him standing at the gate, medallion eyes flashing in the meager light.

"To taste you must plug me quick, while fresh:  
the skin rough, the pulp thick, yes,"

The sly mouth moved and poetry danced about her like – like kisses and fireflies and melting fruit at midday.

"But oh, I warn you against touching –  
the rich juice will gush and stain your hands…"

Eyes shining, she reached out. His hands – true, flesh and blood, warm – took hers. Eagerly, dream-clad, she was lead away, deep into the now mist filled woods. In the distance, wolves began to sing.

* * *

_Snow falls in silence and covers the green  
Still you can see where the birds have been_

* * *

The search party found her the next day, but not how they expected her.

Near the centre of the wood was a small clearing. Standing alone in the middle of it was a single crabapple tree; its wind bent branches sweeping the grass on all sides. It was within this strange bower that they found Song.

She was not dead, as they had first feared, but sleeping contentedly with a tiny smile on her face. She had been wrapped in a cloak of thick grey furs; her bare feet could be seen peeking out from the lower hem. Little white crabapple blossoms had been woven in her jet hair. When on of the men went to pick her up, the cloak fell back, and all gasped.

Song was wearing a wedding dress. It floated about her, made of snowy silk so light it moved like water. About her neck was a fine chain of silver. Hanging from it, framed by her collarbones was a smoky pearl the size of a cherry stone.

She woke then, and blinked lazily at them with contented grey eyes.

"We've come to take you home, Miss Song," they told her. "Your mother was worried."

The girl rewarded them with a sleepy smile and proceeded to doze all the way home.

Later, as her bemused and uncertain mother helped her disrobe and bath, sigils in silver ink were found on her palms. 'Mist' in the left and 'love' in the right. Even more disconcerting were the lines of poetry painted on her shoulders, down her back, stomach and thighs. But those washed away easily enough. The sigils did not. Song looked at them with sighing eyes, touched them with reverent fingers.

She had flat out refused to remove the pearl necklace. Her mother new then that her daughter would never marry. The spirit world had well and truly spoken for her.

"Are you happy?" she asked the girl, searching her face.

Song was surprised. "Of course."

"Alright, then."

* * *

_Hungry but alive and free, waiting_

* * *

Life went on. Battles were fought. Alliances were made. People were brought together and torn apart. The war was won. Seven years on, the repercussions of conflict were still felt, but people survived.

Then one morning, Song arrived home to find her bed covered in drifts of white crabapple blossom. Hands shaking, she picked up a handful and brought it to her face. Something dark flickered down from between her fingers. It was a tag of glossy black paper. On it was written, in luminous silver ink:

_The **Night Temple** invites the Woman-Known-as-Song to pass beneath the Starred Arch and know Sanctuary._

She remembered the reports of wolves in the district. Remembered the last time she had heard them singing. Laughing, she touched the pearl at her throat.

The mist rose that night.

* * *

_Waiting…_

* * *


End file.
